


what am i gonna do with you?

by livepoultryfreshkilled



Category: Ascunion - Eisenberg
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Bastard Behavior, Degradation, Hair-pulling, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Canon, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink, Unhealthy Relationships, and mean ones at that, because we HAVE to know what the hell happened after edgar closes his damn computer, but like. in a sexy way. you know, edgar like stop telling me vinny is emotionally manipulative!! ive seen it.. i enjoy it, good god when the homoerotic roommates codependency hits, im not gonna tag this 'face-fucking' that is embarrassing, it is accurate but it is embarrassing, not for the fic for me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:49:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28973112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livepoultryfreshkilled/pseuds/livepoultryfreshkilled
Summary: But I serve you. I just want to serve you, Vinny, so much!
Relationships: Edgar/Vinny (Asunción)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7





	what am i gonna do with you?

**Author's Note:**

> good fucking god when the fruity ass jesse eisenberg play hits. credit to owen for being my right hand arm. man. my everything. my best friend, my confidante. my silly rabbit. this is all his fault

Edgar slowly closes his computer and turns to the bathroom. He doesn’t look. He can’t see anything that’s in front of him, not right now. Edgar can hear Vinny whistling from inside the shower and absently reaches a hand up to touch his hair where Vinny tousled it. There is something stuck in his ribcage, and it is climbing into his throat.

Vinny takes long showers. Vinny lets the faucet run. He doesn’t quite hold the awareness that Edgar has regarding the conservation of water, but Edgar doesn’t mind. He can make up for it. It’s the least he can do. 

So when Edgar’s allowed the bathroom, he makes sure he calculates exactly how much time he spends on each extremity so he can have the shortest, most efficient shower. So he can run the tap a little longer. So Vinny can have his water cold. He likes it cold, and Edgar doesn’t have a preference, so he’s used to letting it run. Edgar doesn’t have any preferences, so he’s used to going out his way, every day, to get Vinny’s approval. He’s used to waiting until Vinny’s out teaching to charge his phone, just so Vinny can have the outlets if he needs them. He’s used to getting up early, just so Vinny can wake up to warm bagels. He’ll get his sandwich, clean his apartment, grade his papers, anything. So Vinny will like him. So he can be _good._

Edgar doesn’t know how long you’d have to run the tap to get cold water in Dar Es Salaam, but he assumes that it would be much longer than Bingham. Edgar doesn’t know if he could make his showers any shorter. In fact, when he thinks about it, he may not really want to go to Tanzania at all. If, for nothing else, the environmental toll of jet fuel.

There is so much immeasurable suffering on this earth, so many bad people. Edgar doesn’t want to be a bad person. He’ll do anything he can to avoid it, but everything is bad, and you can’t go outside without stepping on a butterfly that kills someone on the other side of the world. Therefore our Edgar, paralyzed with virtue, will not do anything at all. He will not do anything unless, of course, Vinny asks him to.

Edgar wonders if Vinny has ever gone out of his way to get Edgar’s approval, but dismisses the thought as quickly as it comes. Vinny doesn’t need to go out of his way: he _has_ Edgar’s approval. He always will, no matter what. And must know it, the way he treats him.

A memory forms in Edgar’s mind of an instance, about a year ago, when Stuart tried to convince him to move out. It wasn’t the first time he did it, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last, but it was one of the only ones that Edgar ever remembered with clarity. Stuart had been sitting on the couch, or maybe it was the train. Or maybe they had been at Mom’s place, with her hand-sanitizer-and-patchouli fume cloud hanging over everything, coating the insides of Edgar’s lungs. Edgar always coughs horribly when he goes to Mom’s place, allergies and claustrophobia clogging his windpipe. Stuart never seems to be affected, though.

Edgar may not _do_ things anymore, but he certainly didn’t stop talking about them. He had been telling Stuart something about Vinny, maybe how he takes his coffee or maybe how Edgar had been helping him grade his papers that term, and Stuart had asked:

“But what does he do for _you?”_

It had seemed, to Edgar, such a bizarre question: Vinny doesn’t _need_ to do anything for Edgar; Vinny doesn’t have anything to make up for. It’s apples and oranges, or apples and the worm inside them; Edgar and Vinny are simply at different places on the food chain. Edgar does everything for Vinny, to make up for the space he takes, to earn Vinny’s time. That’s the natural order of things, it’s how it should be. Edgar feels like deep down he should be resentful, or feel some urge to push back, but he honestly can’t find it in himself to care. 

The soft _thunk_ of Edgar’s foot against wood snaps him out of his daze. He doesn’t remember getting up but at some point he must have, because his nose is centimeters away from the bathroom door. He can feel the faintest heat radiating from it, and if he looks down he can see wisps of steam pouring out onto the floor. Vinny’s whistling is clearer, now, along with the rush of water.

Edgar’s hand flutters around the doorknob indecisively before falling limply back to his side. He won’t go in. He can’t go in. But he won’t leave, either. 

If he strains, Edgar can hear Vinny singing. It’s different from how he belts along with the blues, it’s softer. More personal. He never sings like this loud enough for Edgar to hear, but then again, Edgar’s never sat outside and tried to listen. Edgar presses his ear to the door and revels in the snippets of nonsense melody he catches. 

_It’s a creepy, voyeuristic thing to do,_ Edgar chastises himself. _It’s perverted._ The thought makes something twinge in his gut, and his face flushes. 

Kneeling down, Edgar makes sure that he is moved just enough out of the way that it wouldn’t obstruct Vinny’s path when he opens the door. He leans forward awkwardly and resumes his position; ear pressed to the door, eyes closed, just _listening._ It’s so intimate in the way they never are: Vinny genuine, alone, vulnerable; Edgar getting to see him like that. Like no one else does. 

Edgar pictures Vinny, features framed by steam and face flushed from heat, soapy water running down his strong legs. He watches him in his mind’s eye; stepping out of the shower with the same confidence and authority that he brings to everything he does, combing his hair because he likes to air-dry, effortlessly pulling on his robe. Edgar can picture exactly how Vinny would tie it, and is so focused on doing so that he nearly falls flat on his face when Vinny opens the door.

The remnants of steam spill out of the bathroom. Vinny’s skin has taken a pinkish hue from the hot water. He looks like he stepped right out of Edgar’s thoughts; in fact—yes, he was right about the robe. Left over right, single knot. Edgar congratulates himself silently on his accomplishment.

Edgar looks up at Vinny, bent forward, braced on his hands and knees. He feels weirdly serene, like he’s having an out-of-body experience. They stare at each other, frozen. Frog and mosquito, fossilized in amber.

Finally, Vinny breaks the silence. “Were you… _waiting_ for me?” Vinny pushes his hands into the pockets of his robe, frowning. Water droplets run from his darkened hair past his collar and down his neck.

“I dunno,” Edgar says. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Vinny shifts his weight from one foot to the other, uncomfortable. He’s never seen Edgar this still before. This sure. “Okay, why?”

“I don’t know,” Edgar says plainly. “I think—I think it’s just what I do. I’m always waiting for you, Vinny.”

No one can really say anything after that. Edgar moves off his hands and knees, but doesn’t stand. Edgar doesn’t do anything. He just watches. 

Edgar observes Vinny, drinking in his face: the thin line of anxiety drawn between his eyebrows, the corners of his mouth turned down just slightly, the glisten of water on his skin. Edgar’s eyes settle on his own warped reflection in Vinny’s pupils, noting, clinically, how the world around him balloons out and distorts. The way Edgar observes Vinny is passive, objective, like God watching man in catastrophe. 

Vinny squirms unconsciously under the heat of Edgar’s gaze. It’s far too hungry, and more than that, it’s far too _honest_ about it. It’s a bad omen. Edgar, in this moment, is capable of doing something very dangerous. Vinny considers kicking him, or maybe running very far away. Everything in the apartment looks off-kilter now, like it’s been thrown off its axis. The only thing that seems balanced is Edgar, sitting back on his heels and staring up at Vinny like he can see right through his skin. Oh, god, he can barely breathe.

Vinny forces out a breathy, awkward laugh. “Don’t be weird, Edgar.”

“Okay,” Edgar concedes. He blinks. “Vinny, I love you.”

Vinny lets out a little _ha-um,_ unsure how to respond.

“I do. I really love you, Vinny. More than anything. And I’ll only go to Tanzania if you tell me to.” Edgar scans Vinny’s face, squinting, like he’s searching for something. “Do you know that I would do anything for you? Because I would. I would do anything if you asked me to, I think. Do you know that?”

“Don’t be _weird,_ Edgar,” Vinny reminds him. He’s trying for stern, but it just comes off scared. He feels a little nauseous.

“Do you?” Edgar leans forward, Vinny steps back. “Because I want—I need you to know that. You’re my best friend. In the whole world. And I need—I need you to know that I would do anything if you asked. I won’t go to Tanzania, I’ll grade your papers, I’ll stay here forever if you want me to. Do you know that?” 

Vinny has backed himself up against the doorpost. “Jesus Christ, Edgar.”

“But _do_ you?” He’s desperate, and he sounds it, and he really doesn’t care.

_“Yes,_ Edgar, fuck!” Vinny runs his hand through his hair. “Relax, man.” 

Edgar sits back, momentarily diffused. There’s another beat of silence, giving Vinny time to let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and for Edgar to furrow his eyebrows at the rug. Then Edgar looks back up at him, and Vinny’s stomach drops again.

“I want you to say it.”

“What, that I don’t want you to go to Tanzania?”

“No—No! I want you to say that you know I’d do anything for you. I want to hear you tell me.”

“Edgar—”

“I think you don’t listen to me, and that’s okay. But you need to know that I will do anything for you, Vinny. I love you. You’re amazing. I’ll do whatever you want.”

Vinny swallows. “You’re freaking me out, Edgar.” Edgar pauses for a moment, considering this. 

“No, I don’t think so.”

“You don’t—what?”

“I don’t think I’m freaking you out,” he repeats. “You—you like this, I think. I—I think—this is what you want.”

Vinny is stunned. He opens his mouth and closes it stupidly, like a fish. His whole body is still, rigid, and the cool air against his wet skin is making him shiver. 

_Does he?_ Vinny feels lightheaded. _Does he want this?_

Edgar is still sitting in front of him. Obedient. Reverent. Vulnerable. _Obscene._ Edgar is laying at his fucking feet, telling Vinny that he can take whatever he wants. 

What _does_ he want?

And what does Edgar want? Vinny puts a hand behind him, bracing himself against the doorjamb. It’s not a thought Vinny’s had often, or maybe ever. Only in the context of deciding what to deny him, really. He’s not even sure why it’s coming up now, in fact.

He just—he needs to figure out what the hell is going on. Is Edgar fucking with him? Is this just him playing up some convoluted scheme to get revenge on Vinny for last night, for Asunción? 

_No_ , Vinny realizes with a jolt, _it isn’t._ Because Edgar wouldn’t fuck with him. Not to get revenge, not _ever,_ because he means it: he loves Vinny. And he would do anything Vinny wanted him to do. And he wants Vinny to know that.

But why now? Is... _that_ what he wants? Is—Is _Vinny_ what he wants? What the fuck is happening?

The silence is only breeding worse and worse questions, so Vinny says the first thing that he can think of.

“You want to suck my dick?”

Deja-vu washes over them both like a bucket of ice. They both realize that Vinny wasn’t joking then, the first time he asked. And they know he isn’t joking now. 

Vinny repeats: “Do you want to suck my dick?”

Edgar blushes. “If,” Vinny watches his throat bob as he swallows, “if you want me to.”

Vinny doesn’t respond. He can barely _breathe_.

The hand resting on Edgar’s thigh twitches. “I mean, _do_ you want me to?” 

There it is.

Edgar’s mysterious confidence is wavering, like any confidence Edgar can scrounge up always does. Vinny likes it, he likes to watch Edgar fold pathetically under pressure. It’s comforting, you know? Familiar. He knows what it means, where it leaves him. Edgar’s deflating, just like Vinny knew he would, and the world is righting itself. And Vinny knows exactly how to deal that final blow, how to knock Edgar back down where he belongs.

“Sure,” Vinny says, suddenly relaxed. He leans back casually against the doorjamb, crossing his arms. He waves a hand in a cavalier gesture at his crotch. “Have at it.”

But Edgar doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t balk, or panic. Edgar doesn’t get to his feet, call Vinny an asshole, and go back to curling up with his shitty little laptop. He doesn’t even blink.

Edgar just nods to himself, like he’s made a decision, and looks up at Vinny. “Okay,” he tells him. “Okay, then I want to.” He clears his throat, knocking out any hint of uncertainty. “I want to.” 

He means it. Edgar wants to—Edgar _wants_ . Oh, god, he wants. Edgar knows—he is so sure, like he hasn’t been in years, maybe his whole life—and he _wants_ . There is so much of Edgar’s life where he’s just this void, where he doesn’t want to get up or work or think or live, but right now he _wants_. 

There’s a pit in his stomach that’s forming, a burning ambition that he hasn’t felt since the time he jerked off a business major who pulled Edgar’s hair until he came in his pants like a highschooler four years ago. But even then, when Edgar’s skin was crackling with sweat and hunger and shame, it was never like _this._

This is different, this is a whole-body forest fire, carving him from the inside out; Edgar’s whole _being_ feels centered. This is _sacred._ Edgar has never believed in organized religion, but in this moment he finally knows what God is. Edgar has found religion; Edgar has found a _purpose._ This isn’t just college-party-three-beers-in desire. This is _real,_ because he knows Vinny, and he loves Vinny, more than anyone in the whole world.

Edgar’s not worth a lot, he’s a nag and a creep and a nebbish, and he knows that. He knows, every day, that he doesn’t have a lot to bring to this world. But right now Vinny wants something from him, and it feels so fucking _good._ Edgar’s whole body drifts forward subconsciously, like Vinny is the center of gravity. And, to Edgar, he very well might be.

Vinny is motionless where he stands, statuesque, a monument of feigned casualness. He doesn’t know what to do. This has nearly happened before, but never like this. Never when they’re both sober, and alone, and so _close;_ without a girl to take one of them home or a sister-in-law to pour boiling water over them. Where is their shame, for fuck’s sake? Their common sense? What has Edgar _done_ to them? Vinny is a deer in the headlights, and there is nothing to stop this freight train from mowing them both down. There isn’t even _pants._ He feels like he’s going to throw up.

“Okay,” Vinny says slowly, trying to see if this will get either of them to snap out of whatever trance they’re in.

“Okay,” Edgar echoes without a hint of doubt. He feels safe, swathed in the security of Vinny’s decision. The responsibility has been lifted, and Edgar’s only job is to do what Vinny says. It’s comforting. It’s natural. It’s _right._

They stay there, Vinny gaping at Edgar until he realizes that he’s waiting for him. He’s always waiting for him _._

Vinny swallows, eyes searching the room, trying to avoid the subject. He taps his foot, stalling for time.

“So, you’ve done it before? Sucked a dick?”

Edgar flushes. “Um.”

Vinny snorts. “Come on, Eddie. It’s a _bit_ late for your blushing virgin routine, don’t you think?”

“N—no, not,” Edgar fists his hand in the leg of his sweatpants. “I mean—I haven’t done. Well. _That._ ”

Now _that’s_ intriguing. “But you’ve done something _like_ it?”

Edgar gives a jerky nod. “Once. Freshman year. I didn’t know you, yet.” He looks up at Vinny, shamefully honest. “But nothing since then.” Vinny grins.

“Oh, no. Oh, _no._ Edgar,” he tilts his head, pitying, “ _please_ don’t fucking tell me that you’ve been abstaining for my sake.”

Spurred on by Edgar’s silence, Vinny continues. “I mean, I like to think I’ve fostered a pretty progressive energy in terms of sexual exploration, so I doubt you’ve been avoiding,” he can hardly hide the delight in his voice, “ _dabbling_ because you were afraid of offending me. Or,” His face falls, “have I been coming off as a bigot, Edgar? A _homophobe?_ ” Vinny asks, hand draped melodramatically over his heart. 

Edgar shakes his head rapidly. “No? Then what was it?” Vinny sneers. “Christ, please tell me you weren’t doing it out of some misplaced sense of loyalty. You weren’t, were you? Because that’s sad, even for _you._ ”

Edgar’s blush darkens even further. Uncharacteristically quiet, he studies a small hole in the knee of his pants, picking at it.

Vinny pouts, patronizingly sympathetic. He stifles a laugh. “Oh, _Edgar._ ”

Edgar is biting his lip. He looks like he’s about to cry. 

Vinny sucks his teeth. “I guess I’m just gonna have to tell you what to do, huh, buddy?” His tone, softer now, is dripping with insincerity. It makes Edgar’s stomach churn all the same, though. Maybe even more for it.

“I’m sorry,” Edgar tells him, almost reflexively.

“Well, don’t apologize _now,_ not after propositioning me like this. Come on, stand your ground, man!”

“Okay,” Edgar agrees, pliant. There’s a pause.

Vinny rolls his eyes. “Jesus Christ, you’re not gonna reach it from all the way over there.” Edgar blinks. Vinny sighs, exhausted. “Come.”

Edgar perks up, scooching forward. He loves it when Vinny tells him that, to _come to him_ . It makes him feel wanted, _owned._ Like a dog. He’s kneeling right in front of Vinny now, eye-level with the knot of his still-closed robe. He has to tilt his head even farther back to look at Vinny now, carelessly vulnerable. His head is still. His hands are twitching impatiently in his lap.

Vinny’s much more at ease now. It’s not like he’s never been with men before—not like he’s gay or anything, he’s just open-minded, and you can’t really avoid it if you want to do group sex. What he was hung up on is that it’s _Edgar._ Vinny is well aware of how there’s always been this sick little power dynamic between them, and despite his promiscuity, he’s not a sex offender. It’s just—Vinny can’t help but feel a little guilty, after all. He’s a grown man, and Edgar’s… Well, Edgar. Then again, Edgar _is_ a legal adult, as little as he seems like it, and he’s perfectly capable of consent (not that he frequently has the opportunity to take advantage of it.) Plus, Vinny can see Edgar’s stupid little boner tenting his sweatpants, and it’s kind of hot.

Vinny doesn’t have much experience with guys, but he’s been in this position before, and he figures it doesn’t really matter who’s looking up at him from down there. A mouth is a mouth is a mouth. And, not for nothing, but Edgar has quite a nice one.

He even kind of looks like a girl like this. Edgar’s always been sort of a prettyboy, really: with long eyelashes dusting high cheekbones, dainty hands connecting to thin, frail wrists, and his whiny little falsetto. If Vinny ignores the strong jawline and the Adam's apple, he could picture Edgar as a girl. A flat chested one, sure, with a big nose and a jewfro, but Vinny’s done worse. 

Vinny reaches down, threading his fingers through Edgar’s bangs. Edgar leans into the touch. Vinny tightens his grip, smiling victorious when he hears Edgar’s breath hitch. He always knew that little creep was into some freaky shit.

Vinny slowly tilts Edgar’s head even farther back by his hair, Edgar shamelessly unresistant. “Anything I want, huh?” Vinny mumbles to no one in particular.

“Yeah,” Edgar tells him, breathless. His mouth has fallen open slightly, and his eyes are glassy. “Whatever you want.” Vinny’s dick twitches.

“Good.” Edgar’s eyes widen, but he still doesn’t move. Vinny _tsks_ disapprovingly. “Oh, I forgot. I still have to help you, huh?” Edgar’s chest seizes. “You can’t fuckin’ do anything, can you?”

“I can’t. I know, I’m sorry,” Edgar says, not sounding very sorry at all.

“You should be,” Vinny reprimands him, suddenly stern. He releases his hair forcefully, slamming it forward. “You’re pathetic. It’s offensive.” Edgar suppresses a whimper.

“I know. I know I am,” Edgar reaches up, long fingers nearly touching the belt of Vinny’s robe. He’s so hard it hurts. “I’m sorry, I can make it up to you. Let me— _please_ let me do this for you.”

Vinny sighs indulgently. “Fine,” he drawls, undoing his belt. His robe falls open. Edgar averts his eyes, dizzy with shame and arousal. “Hey,” Vinny snaps his fingers, “Look at me.”

“Sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.”

“So—Okay. Okay.”

Vinny’s been half-hard since he pulled Edgar’s hair. He strokes himself lazily, using the remaining water from the shower as lube. Edgar’s eyes follow the movement, hypnotized. He’s salivating. He shouldn’t be, he _has_ a dick and he knows that nothing they produce tastes good—all the times he’s licked it off his hands, fantasizing, it’s just been bitter and filthy. Embarrassing, really. Edgar runs his tongue over his lips absentmindedly.

“Some ground rules,” Vinny declares, sounding almost bored. Edgar doesn’t look at him—well, not at his _face._

“Hey.” Still nothing. 

_“Hey,”_ Vinny grabs Edgar by his ear, ignoring the pathetic yelp it prompts. “I’m fuckin’ talking.” Edgar bites back an apology, nodding, and Vinny lets go of his ear. He repeats, slowly; “Ground rules.”

“Ground rules,” Edgar echoes, voice hoarse. He rubs his ear.

“Rule one: no teeth,” that’s really more of a pointer than a rule, but whatever. “Rule number two: don’t talk.” Edgar nods slowly, a little zoned out from the hyper-awareness of his proximity to Vinny’s dick. There’s a beat. “That’s it.” 

Edgar opens his mouth to say _okay,_ but quickly closes it. Vinny nods approvingly. “Good.” Edgar tries his best to refrain from melting into the rug. 

“Hands,” Vinny says, “I’m not doing all the work myself.” Edgar reaches up to grip Vinny’s dick and fumbles a little with the angle, earning him a derisive snort. “Come on, shouldn’t be an expert at jacking off by this point?” Edgar shoots him a look. “Oh, I’m sorry. Was that _crude?_ ” Edgar bites his lip, pink from the neck up. 

“You’re being really mean,” Edgar complains under his breath, petulant. _“Ah—!”_ His shout is embarrassingly high-pitched when Vinny grabs his head. Vinny pulls him up by the base of his skull, tilting Edgar’s chin back and straining his neck. It _hurts_.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m s—mmp!” Vinny covers Edgar’s mouth with the palm of his hand, gripping the front of his face.

“Rule two,” Vinny reminds him coldly. Edgar attempts to nod, but Vinny’s hands are on both sides of his head, caging him in, and it’s limiting his mobility. And, oh god, he can barely breathe: Vinny’s covering his mouth, and the crook between his thumb and forefinger is pressed under his nose. He feels lightheaded, and he can’t fucking _move_ or squirm away, which, absurdly, is making him dizzier. Edgar bats at Vinny’s arm with his free hand, feeling a sharp spike of adrenaline when Vinny doesn’t let go. They’re around the same height, but Vinny’s always been so much stronger than him that he could hold Edgar there forever, if he wanted to. Jesus Christ, Vinny could throw him around like a fucking _ragdoll_. Edgar whimpers against Vinny’s palm, eyes bulging, frantic. This was apparently the reaction Vinny was looking for, and he lets go.

Edgar takes a deep, shaky breath. He resumes his focus on Vinny’s dick, squeezing it experimentally. Edgar looks up, but can’t gauge a reaction from Vinny’s expression. Vinny isn’t even _looking_ at him. Edgar wracks his brain, trying to think about what he knows feels good, rifling desperately through his painfully minimal experience with handjobs. He has to do this right. He has to be good. If Edgar fucks this up for Vinny, he’ll die.

Edgar twists his wrist on the upstroke, like he does to himself (or, at least, he used to), which earns the smallest hiss from Vinny. Edgar basks in it.

Vinny cups the back of Edgar’s head, pushing it forward. Edgar moves, compliant, and in a burst of random, experimental hedonism, licks a stripe up Vinny’s dick, base to tip. Vinny sighs, so Edgar does it again, eyes never leaving Vinny’s face. This time, he runs his tongue under the head, sucking it into his mouth. Edgar is careful to avoid using his teeth. Vinny groans, nearly inaudible, so Edgar does it again and again, trying his best to make it good. He was right. It doesn’t taste great. And still, regardless, he’s more turned on than he’s ever been in his life. It’s hopelessly hot, just sliding it in and out of his mouth, staring up at Vinny through his eyelashes.

He attempts to establish some sort of tempo regarding his strokes and the bob of his head, but Edgar’s so nervous and wired and aroused that it just devolves into an arrhythmic stutter. Everything is so surreal. There is a _dick_ in his _mouth_. His mouth! Edgar is anxious, suddenly, that this could be some sort of appropriation of gay culture, but pushes the thought down. Something to worry about later tonight. 

Vinny’s hand finds Edgar’s head, guiding it forward. Edgar obediently takes more into his mouth, making up for what he can’t fit with his hands. And, you know, it’s not that Edgar thought Vinny would be _small_ or anything, but he wasn’t really expecting how quickly his jaw would start to ache, and he certainly doesn’t know how to account for the fact that he’s drooling. It’s disgusting, really, and he can’t even wipe his face.

Vinny, too, has noticed that he’s drooling. Edgar’s fucking _drooling._ He tries to pull off for air, but Vinny holds the back of his head, gently but firmly stopping him. “ _Shh,_ _shh,_ no, just breathe through your nose,” he tells him, trying to suppress the shaking in his voice. 

Okay, look: normally, Vinny would _never_ hold a girl’s head down like that. He’s a firm believer in the sexual autonomy of women and the importance of consent, but the thing is: this isn’t a girl, it's _Edgar,_ and Edgar’s different. Edgar told him to take whatever he wants, and it’s not like he’s ever cared about getting Edgar’s permission for anything, but he will anyway. And no girl has ever let Vinny deepthroat her before, either, much less actually fuck her face, so if he wants the experience at all he might as well take advantage of the situation. So Vinny pushes Edgar’s head down and holds it, cruelly, feeling his dick brush the back of Edgar’s throat. Edgar gags, pinned where he is by Vinny’s hand, still looking up at him like he’s made out of gold.

Vinny watches Edgar swallow around his cock, throat working. _Jesus._ He has one hand braced on Vinny’s hip, holding himself up, and one twisting around the base of Vinny’s dick. He’s drooling all over it, and for someone as neurotic as Edgar, he really doesn’t seem to care. Vinny’s really at a loss as to how Edgar learned how to suck dick like that, because he’s far too pretentious to watch porn and “contribute to the exploitation of women,” as he would put it. He certainly hasn’t gotten enough blowjobs in his life to pick up anything like _this,_ either. Vinny supposes it’s just enthusiasm and dedication. A little too much enthusiasm, he notes, feeling the uncomfortable scrape of Edgar’s teeth against the base of his dick. A spike of irritation blooms, and Vinny pulls Edgar roughly off, fisting his hair.

“What,” Vinny growls, voice deeper than Edgar’s ever heard it, “did I tell you about teeth?” Edgar’s dick jumps in his sweatpants. He’s in _trouble._

“I’m sorry, Vinny— _ah,_ ” Edgar whimpers as Vinny tightens his fist in Edgar’s hair, _hard_ . His eyes water. “That _hurts_ —!” he whines, which just gets him another tug, even harsher. Edgar’s scalp stings, his throat is hoarse and his jaw aches. He thinks he might come.

“And _what_ ,” Vinny hisses, “did I say about talking?” Edgar’s lip quivers. Vinny resists the urge to preen.

Edgar’s breaths are coming out uneven and ragged. He still has a hand on Vinny’s cock, the other one desperately fisting his robe. With the angle that his head is tilted— _forced_ at, Edgar has no choice but to look up to Vinny, throat bared and panting. Edgar lets go of the robe so he can wipe his mouth, but Vinny knocks it away. Edgar bites his lip, studying him nervously.

Suddenly, Vinny’s entire demeanor changes. He releases Edgar’s hair and moves his hand down to cup his face. It’s so gentle, so _nice,_ and Edgar feels like he’s going to pass out.

“Hey, hey,” he soothes, “it’s not your fault.” Vinny’s tone is jarringly soft. “I mean, you don’t know what you’re doing, do you?” Edgar slowly shakes his head, stunned. “No,” Vinny agrees, frowning sympathetically. God, his hand is so _warm._ “Aw, you need me to teach you, huh?” Edgar swallows audibly, nodding. Vinny smiles. “Yeah,” he strokes his thumb gently over Edgar’s cheekbone, “yeah, you do.”

Vinny shifts his hand, gripping the bottom of Edgar’s jaw and lightly tugging. “Open.” Edgar does. “Put your lips over your teeth,” Vinny uses his thumb to slide Edgar’s bottom lip over his lower canines, “like this.” Edgar obeys, impressively refraining from licking Vinny’s fingers into his mouth. Vinny then guides the head of his dick slowly past Edgar’s lips, still brushing his thumb soothingly against Edgar’s flushed skin. He holds Edgar by the back of his neck and nudges him forward, Edgar’s whole body following as though pulled by an invisible string. He swallows; Edgar takes as much from Vinny as he possibly can, and then he takes a little more.

His cock hits the back of Edgar’s throat, and Vinny groans softly. Edgar gags a little, but Vinny’s there to help him hold his head in place. He feels like he’s on drugs, because Vinny’s there, next to him; he’s _inside_ Edgar and they’re just so close that Edgar feels like he could cry. He probably will, if he’s being honest. But he tries to hold it in, all that watery emotion and self-serving desperation that’s not worth anything to anyone. He’ll prove it instead. So he breathes in deep and swallows Vinny down far enough that his nose is buried in black hair until he hears Vinny really, genuinely moan.

Vinny can feel Edgar’s throat spasming around his dick as he tries to gag. He gasps. “Good, that’s—that’s good, Edgar, that’s good.” Edgar whimpers, his whole body tightening. He presses his thighs together, wincing at how wet the fabric is. There’s gonna be _such_ a stain. Edgar’s desperate for even a little friction on his dick, but honestly, he could come from just this. 

It’s insane, he can’t believe he hasn’t masturbated in _three months;_ it’s barely been 10 minutes and Edgar already feels like he’s gonna die. It’s just—it’s been _so_ long, and he’s being _so_ good, and he _really_ wants to jack himself off right here, right now, kneeled at Vinny’s feet. But he can’t. This isn’t for him; this is for Vinny, and sometimes two people do things one of them enjoys more. He’s performing a service, not a recreation. So Edgar ignores how his jaw is screaming and how badly his throat burns, like he should. And he’s so close that he could come from just this, really. All he needs is to hear Vinny tell him he’s good again.

Vinny threads his fingers through Edgar’s (soft, soft) hair and gently guides him off. Edgar coughs painfully, tears streaming down his face. Something pulls in Vinny’s chest at the pathetic way Edgar sniffs, at how _small_ he looks, staring up at him. 

“Listen, Vinny, I know,” Jesus Christ, his voice is fucking _wrecked,_ _“IknowI’mnotallowedtotalkbutIjustwantedtoletyouknowthatyoucandowhateveryouwanttome.”_ Edgar inhales shakily, letting out another watery cough.

Vinny blinks. “What?” 

“I know I’m not suppos—I’m not allowed to talk, but I wanted to let you know that—that you can do whatever you want to me,” Edgar repeats. “And I’ll take it. Anything—you can do anything you want with me.” He sniffs again.

Vinny smiles, eyes cold and hungry. He ruffles Edgar’s hair playfully. “Yeah,” he says, “I can.” 

Edgar shudders.

“Now, _shh,_ remember?” Vinny gently admonishes him, putting a finger in front of his own lips, like he was talking to a child. Edgar parts his lips just enough that Vinny will still hold Edgar’s chin between his fingers to pull it all the way open. He grips the base of Edgar’s skull firmly and guides him forward, trying not to think too hard about how _grateful_ Edgar looks, even with tears welling up in his eyes.

Edgar presses his tongue up against the underside of Vinny’s cock, stifling his gag when Vinny jerkily shoves his head down. 

“ _Fuck,_ ” Vinny moans, sounding shocked. Edgar stifles a cough. Edgar grips the backs of Vinny’s thighs and sighs through his nose, eyelashes fluttering shut until Vinny gives his hair a light tug. 

“Unh-uh. Eyes up here.” Edgar moans softly. “Good.”

Vinny pulls Edgar back, but only so far that he keeps the head of Vinny’s cock in his mouth. He waits for Edgar to relax his neck before he starts fucking his mouth in earnest; leaning against the doorjamb, legs shaking, gripping the wall for purchase. Vinny’s never done this before, just _take._ Or, at least, never during sex; he supposes he takes from Edgar whenever he wants. Because Vinny likes to pride himself on his capacity to be a gentle, considerate lover; he could never knock a _woman_ around like this, not with so little respect. He’d never fist her hair, holding her down just to feel how her throat convulses around his dick. Not like how he’s doing to Edgar. Vinny rocks into Edgar’s mouth, feeling the pinch of Edgar’s nails digging into his thigh, watching the bulge of his own cock in Edgar’s throat, reveling in the tears streaming down his face. He could never do this with— _to_ someone else. 

No, Vinny thinks, that’d just be wrong.

Vinny’s hand is on the back of Edgar’s head, guiding him, helping him stay down even when he jerks back, choking. Edgar’s barely moving now, just letting Vinny make him move how _he_ wants, relishing this newfound feeling of usefulness. Sometimes Edgar wishes that he could be a chair, or a utensil, or maybe a bicycle; an object, without responsibility, its only purpose to serve others. This, he thinks, is as close as he can ever get to that. Passive, yielding, serving Vinny and nothing more. A possession. Edgar’s whole body suddenly goes rigid. He’s about to come. He’s about to come, and Vinny doesn’t care. He doesn’t even _notice._

He wants Vinny to notice, or at least notice _him,_ how good Edgar’s been for him. Edgar hollows out his cheeks and flattens his tongue against the underside of Vinny’s cock, sucking. 

“Haa,” Vinny whines, like it’s hurting him, even as his hips pump up thoughtlessly. “ _Fuck,_ Edgar, that’s—good, good,” he chants, back arching against the wood, “Good job, ah—good boy,” Vinny goes tense, pinning Edgar by the back of his neck. “Oh— _fuck!_ ” Vinny curses, coming down Edgar’s throat with a shout. 

Vinny won’t let Edgar pull off fully despite his muffled whining, so Edgar has to swallow to stop from choking, even though it tastes terrible and is horrifically unsanitary. Though, Edgar admits, covered in tears and snot and drool, perhaps that’s a bit of a moot point. He tries to swallow as fast as he can, but half of it still ends up spilling out of his mouth and onto his chin. Edgar falls onto his hands, then his elbows, coughing wildly. His arms are shaking, vision darkening at the edges.

Vinny knocks his head back against the doorpost, panting. “Jesus,” he wheezes, closing his eyes for a minute.

When he opens them back up, Edgar is still coughing on the floor, quieter now.

“You don’t need to,” Vinny mimes jerking off, still a little out of breath, “you know?”

If Edgar wasn’t already bright red, he’d probably blush. He shakes his head minutely.

“You can—you can talk now,” Vinny tells him. He’s starting to feel a little embarrassed. 

_“No—,”_ Edgar starts, and even Vinny seems startled by how strangled his voice is. He attempts to clear his throat, but just starts coughing again. Gingerly, Edgar sits down, his back against the opposite doorjamb, legs tucked up in front of him. He’s pretty sure he couldn’t stand if he tried. He takes a deep breath.

“No,” Edgar tries again, voice straining. He wipes his face with his sleeve, cringing at the wet spot it leaves. “I—um,” he crosses his legs, “no.” Edgar shifts uncomfortably, the damp fabric of his sweatpants chafing.

“Oh. _Oh,_ ” Vinny gets it. He chuckles softly. “Really, man? Just from that?” Edgar folds his arms over his knees, turning his face away.

“No, it’s cool, I just—I mean, it’s a compliment.” Edgar covers his face with his arms, petulant. Vinny holds back a laugh. “No, really!” 

Edgar says nothing. “Fine, whatever.” Vinny re-ties the knot on his robe, wiping his dick off on the fabric. He walks past Edgar, only making a few steps before he smiles mischievously. 

“Which part was it?”

“Vinny!” Edgar whisper-shouts, mortified.

Vinny drops down next to Edgar, squatting. He pokes him playfully. “Come on! Tell me, man.” Edgar buries his face in his arms again. Impatient, Vinny lightly cups his chin. Gripping it between his thumb and forefinger, he turns Edgar’s face towards him. Vinny cocks his eyebrow, tone authoritative. “Edgar?”

Despite facing him, Edgar still avoids Vinny’s eyes. “Was it when I pulled your hair?” He shakes his head. “No? Oh,” Vinny says, grinning, “I know.” Edgar glances up tentatively. Their faces are so close.

“Edgar,” Vinny asks, voice low, “did you come when I called you a _good boy?_ ” Edgar’s eyes can’t help but fall to his mouth. 

There’s a long pause. “...yeah,” Edgar says finally, voice small. His eyes dart from Vinny’s lips to his eyes, then back again. Oh, they are _so_ close.

Vinny pulls away abruptly. “ _Dude_ ,” he drawls, “that is _fucked up._ ” He purses his lips, cringing. “You’re unhealthy, buddy,” Vinny tells him gently. Giving Edgar a final pat on the shoulder, Vinny stands up and walks to his room.

Edgar’s eyes follow Vinny’s back, wincing at the slam of the door. He has to use two hands to brace himself as he stands up, wobbling legs threatening to give way. Taking a deep, watery breath, Edgar walks to the kitchen to get two glasses of water. Like always, he runs the tap for a few seconds, just to make sure it’s cold. It’s the least he can do.

**Author's Note:**

> we NEED to get the vaccine


End file.
